


prior probabilities

by Sixthlight



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Community: theoldguardkinkmeme, Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sixthlight/pseuds/Sixthlight
Summary: The one where Yusuf runs away once for love and once for common sense, and Nicolò has no idea what's going on, but would like to at least be rejected in person.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Original Character(s)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 848





	prior probabilities

“We are very pleased to receive you,” the queen of Tunis tells Nicolò, “but I am afraid I have poor tidings as return for your journey: my son is not here.”

“Is he...expected back soon?” Nicolò asks. It is more than poor tidings; he is entirely taken aback.

“I could not say,” the queen replies. “He did not leave word.”

“May I assume it is in response to our marriage?”

“Well, I certainly am.” The queen sighs. “Please do not take this to heart, Lord Nicolò; he has never even laid eyes on you.”

“I did write,” Nicolò says, shuffling, trying to remember if there was anything in that letter that could possibly have persuaded a prospective fiancé to flee him like an oncoming army.

“See,” his brother Marco says. “I told you that was a mistake.”

“There was nothing wrong with the letter, I read it,” says the prince consort, his fiancé’s father. “It was very polite.”

“My belief is,” says the queen, “that my son objected less to marrying in principle, and more to this proposal that you would rule Malta, at least for the meantime – he feels it is very small, and far away – and also...” She shakes her head. “It does not matter. In the meantime, you are welcome here on your mother’s behalf, and I expect Yusuf will return in some short time. He is not undutiful.”

“I did not expect romance, when my mother and you arranged this marriage,” Nicolò says, “but I cannot marry someone entirely unwilling.”

The queen’s eyebrows rise. “And I will not force my son, so we understand each other; but I doubt this is so final a refusal. He is occasionally impulsive.”

*

Nicolò has known that he is to marry Yusuf of Tunis for more than a year now; it has been agreed between their mothers, one a queen in her own right, the other the countess regent of Genoa ever since Nicolò’s father died when he was still in the womb. His oldest brother Godfrey is Count now, but twenty years of their mother’s rule has accustomed him to her counsel, and so he has approved this alliance.

“It’s not so important you couldn’t turn it down,” he had told Nicolò, “but I think it would please your mother very much; she and the queen are old friends, since that business in Sicily.”

“I don’t object,” Nicolò had said. “I am the youngest; I never expected to stay in Genoa. I only hope he is amicable.”

The plan is that they will live on and rule Malta, until Yusuf takes his own throne, whenever that may be. Nicolò has only visited the main island once, but it seems pleasant enough, and he would rather be there than away from the sea.

Apparently Prince Yusuf would rather be nowhere near Nicolò at all. He cannot help but feel it a little personally. This is in part because his next-oldest brother Marco, who has accompanied him to see him married, thinks it is _hilarious_.

“I know it isn’t you,” he says, still choking down laughter, “but the look on your face! When you have half of Genoa sighing over you, and then this prince runs away from you, sight unseen!”

“I don’t have half of Genoa sighing over me,” Nicolò says, baffled.

“Yes, you do,” Marco insists. “It isn’t your fault, and I know you don’t do anything to encourage it, with your priestly ways.”

Nicolò says nothing to that; he is perhaps not so priestly as Marco appears to think, although it is true he had considered the Church very seriously for a time, when he was younger. But his sister Bernadetta had already been allowed to take the veil, so his mother had gently discouraged it.

“We will have to decide how long we wait,” Nicolò says. “We cannot kick our heels here forever.”

“A week or two?” Marco suggests. “If he is not found by then, his mother is wrong, and it is a serious discontent; in that case we may as well depart until she has ordered her household better.”

“A week or two,” Nicolò agrees.

They wait. The prince does not reappear. His parents are obviously, and increasingly, concerned, but they do not confide anything in Nicolò about where he may have gone. Nicolò does overhear two of the princesses discussing the matter, through a screen separating areas of the gardens.

“I tell you,” says one of them. “He’s gone away to hide with that lover of his, live in a cottage and write poetry. He _told_ our mother he was in love with him.”

“Would he, though?” says the other. “Wouldn’t it be better to try and meet the Genoan, and decide if he could stand the marriage?”

“Not if he’s really in love,” says the first. “You know our brother. He’s so good at being in love. But I think he really was, with this one.”

“Mother is going to scold him for _years_ , when he’s found.”

“Mother has other things to worry about, with the Almoravids –” Nicolò loses the thread of the conversation as they move away.

“What’s that about the Almoravids?” Marco wants to know.

“It’s difficult for them here,” Nicolò says. “Empires on either side; that is why the sea-trade and this alliance are so important to them, I think. And just as good for us, which is why I will make this marriage if I can.”

“Perhaps you will be offered one of the princesses, instead.”

“Perhaps,” Nicolò says. He doesn’t really want a princess. Marco, annoyingly, notices this.

“Oh, no, I forgot. You would much rather a prince, if you could have one.”

“We all have our preferences,” Nicolò says.

“I’m not criticising,” Marco says, cheerfully, and Nicolò knows he isn’t. Marco isn’t always the quickest on the uptake, but he is fundamentally good-hearted.

Eventually it occurs to Nicolò to wonder if their presence might impede the prince from re-appearing at all. He tells the queen that they will go to Malta – if she thinks that fitting – until things are more certain.

“That might be wise,” she says. “You should not have to wait long.” She studies him. “Are you still prepared to go ahead with this?”

Nicolò squares his shoulders. “Yes.”

*

They leave on an afternoon tide, and anchor for the night shortly after sunset. Captain Nile is from Malta herself, and pleased to be going there now, even if she sympathises with Nicolò’s frustration at the circumstances.

“You’d think a prince would be better able to face up to his duties,” she is saying to Nicolò, when there is a sound of splashing.

“What’s that noise?” Nicolò says.

“Could be birds,” Nile says, but she puts her hands on the railing and leans out a little, looking towards where their anchor rope goes over the side. “Huh. It’s not birds.”

“There’s a _man_ ,” says Marco, sounding bewildered. Nile is striding towards where he’s standing, waving to the crew to stand by.

“Hello there,” she calls over the side, in the trading tongue; Nicolò catches up to her as she says it. “Where did you come from?” There’s a pause.

“I am just taking a rest,” someone calls back. He sounds like his mother-tongue might be one of the many kinds of Arabic they speak on the southern shore of this sea. “Before I continue to shore.”

“It’s getting dark,” Nile says. “That’s dangerous.”

“That’s my problem, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” says Marco. “Come on board.” Nile and Nicolò exchange a look; of course Marco had not stopped to ask before saying that.

Nicolò doesn’t bother saying anything, though; he’s too busy finding the rope ladder, coiled neatly in its chest, and attaching it to the hooks on the railing. He throws it over the side. The sun has set, and it is rapidly getting dark. He sees the man let go of the anchor line, and swim across to the rope ladder, but he can’t make out any of the details of his face. His hair is dark, and curly; well, that does not distinguish him from half of the crew on this ship. He climbs the ladder quickly. Nicolò reaches out to give him a hand over the railing. His flesh is chilled from the sea.

“Peace be upon you,” Nicolò says, then switches back to the trading tongue. “We saw another vessel passing eastward, just before sunset. Did they throw you off?”

“Ah, no,” says the man. “I jumped.” He is much of Nicolò’s height and probably his age as well, though his skin is darker. Right now he is sallow with tiredness, and soaked to the skin. He does not seem to be armed, or in any state to present a danger to the ship. It would have been the right thing to do to help him anyway, but Nicolò will allow himself a little pragmatism.

“Slavers,” Marco says, nodding sagely.

“No,” the man says, again. “No, it is – a longer story than that.”

“It can wait,” Nicolò says. “Nile, can we –”

“Someone’s fetching a blanket,” Nile says. “Do you have a name?”

The man hesitates, noticeably. “I am called Tayyib.”

“That’s nice,” Nile says. “Well, Nicolò is right, your story can wait until you’re dry, but I’m the captain of this ship and I want your word right now that you’re not going to cause trouble for us, or you can climb right back down that ladder and keep on going to shore.”

“You have it,” Tayyib says, accepting the blanket a crewman hands him with murmured thanks. “I don’t mean to cause anybody any trouble, though I must warn you, I am not succeeding, of late.”

“We all have those times,” Nicolò says, clapping him reassuringly on the upper arm. “You are welcome with us for tonight. I will see if we can find you some dry clothes.”

“You are kindness itself,” Tayyib says, or that’s what Nicolò thinks he says; it’s in Arabic, and not the Sicilian dialet he knows best. He’s certainly from Tunis, or somewhere nearby. He goes on in the trading tongue. “Thank you. May I know the names of my helpers?”

“I am Nicolò of Genova,” Nicolò tells him, “and this is my brother Marco, and Captain Nile.” He is already turning, to see about the clothes, as he speaks; he cannot see the man’s face. He does not say anything in response.

*

Fire is of course one of the greatest dangers at sea, so the only light they have is from enclosed lanterns, of pierced tin and horn. Nicolò wishes for daylight, when things might seem clearer. They offer Tayyib food and water; he demurs, but Nile insists, saying she knows how tiring swimming any distance is, especially clothes.

“You’re lucky not to be drowned,” she says. “What are you running from?”

“A mistake,” Tayyib says. “But not a crime, if that is what you are wondering.”

“You can’t leave it there,” Marco insists. “We fished you out of the ocean; the least you owe us is your story.”

“He fished himself out,” Nicolò corrects his brother. “Unlike my brother I will not insist, but I am curious.”

“It is really very boring.”

“The funny thing is,” says Nile, “when people keep insisting that, it usually means the opposite thing.”

Tayyib ducks his head, and is silent for a few long moments before he speaks. “Call it embarrassing, then. I was – traveling to be married, but it turned out that my husband to be and I had different views on what it would mean, once we were wed. So I decided I would rather swim for shore than continue.”

“That seems to be going around,” Marco says. “Running away from marriages.”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” Nicolò says, irritated. “Do you fear pursuit? And where are you trying to return to? Your family?”

“In time.” Tayyib winces. “They will not be pleased with my choice. As for pursuit – I do not know.”

“If your family care for you, and this marriage was so distasteful you were willing to risk death to avoid it, surely they will forgive you,” Nicolò says. “Unless you are a man to change your mind with every passing breeze.”

“I certainly do not think of myself that way, but then, I suspect nobody who is like that does, do they?” The man chuckles, with only an edge of self-mockery. “Constancy being a virtue we all want to believe we have.”

“You understand how people work.” Nicolò smiles back at him. Dry, and hopefully warm, he is handsome in the flickering lantern-light. Nicolò does not want to be shallow, but if the prince had looked so, and been willing to accept Nicolò as a husband, he would have counted himself very fortunate. As it is – when he is tracked down, Nicolò supposes it will be better if he turns out to be plain. He has to pursue this marriage, but he would rather not be tormented with a husband he finds attractive and knows does not want him.

“I thought I did, too.” The man looks down.

“We really do not need to speak further of it,” Nicolò says, feeling sorry for him. What a situation to be in. “Only tell us, where did you intend to go, if you survived to the shore? We are headed for Malta.”

“I –” Another noticeable hesitation. “I can make my way home from there easily enough.”

“We are marking time,” Nicolò says. “As long as you do not wish to go to Tunis, we could go out of our way.” He ignores the look Marco gives him.

“What are you avoiding in Tunis?”

Nicolò laughs. “Well, that is a long story. Let us say my presence there is awkward, for the moment, until – anyway. Malta, then?”

“Malta.” Tayyib sighs.

“What do you have against Malta?” Nile asks.

“It’s a rock in the middle of the ocean.”

“It is not,” says Nile, who grew up there and has strong opinions on the subject. “Have you ever even be there?”

“Ah, no.”

“Wait until you see it before you say things like that.”

“You’re right; that was uncharitable of me. What do you like best about it?”

He talks Nile into a verbal defence of her home island’s beauty, and quotes poetry about the sea. He has a lovely voice, Nicolò thinks. He likes the poetry, and tells him so. Tayyib looks startled by this. Nicolò really does not know why; he wonders if Tayyib’s family have had misfortune with pirates from Genoa or one of its sister cities, or something like that. His sodden clothes had been those of someone well-off, a merchant, perhaps.

“You know,” Marco says that night, quietly, “I am sure you know better than to openly start lusting after someone when you still have a husband to find and make peace with.”

“You are right, I do,” Nicolò says, “and I cannot imagine why you have brought the subject up.”

Marco snorts sceptically, but leaves it there.

*

It is four days to Malta, sailing along the coast of Sicily and avoiding the open sea. Nile is always clear on these journeys that his job (and Marco’s, since he is present) is to stay out of her way and the crew’s.

Nicolò has little to occupy him but his thoughts about his marriage and spotting sails appearing and vanishing on the horizon. He spends the time with their mysterious man from the sea, instead, hoping to persuade him that Genoans are not all cut from the same cloth, whatever he thinks that cloth is.

Tayyib talks readily enough with the crew, and Nile; it is only Nicolò and Marco he seems cautious around. He does not reveal anything more directly about the prospective husband _he_ is escaping, or why he agreed to the marriage and then fled it in such a manner. Nicolò wonders if perhaps his future husband had proven to have already had a lover, or something like that. If so, it is a good lesson to Nicolò about what he should not offer the prince. He does not say anything that contradicts his story, and really, Nicolò has no reason to doubt it.

When coaxed out of cautious silence, he is a clever talker, and in turn he draws the story of Nicolò’s own intended marriage out of him – well, mostly out of Marco, who finds the whole coincidence very funny.

“It isn’t funny, Marco,” Nicolò chides him. “It was very embarrassing for the queen, and now I have no choice but to try and complete the marriage anyway, once he is found, knowing how much he does not want it. It is going to be miserable.”

“If you know it is going to be miserable, why pursue it?” asks Tayyib, frowning.

“It isn’t _for_ me,” Nicolò says, annoyed that Marco has made him speak of this. “I am – Marco did not really explain this, did he. My mother is the countess of Genoa – well, my oldest brother is the count now, but she was his regent for twenty years – and she and the queen of Tunis arranged this match between them, as a way to mediate control of the southern trade route. It is not that there can be no goodwill between us without the marriage, but this was supposed to be the capstone upon the alliance, and it would be a failure of my duty to refuse it.”

“Most likely you’ll end up married to one of the princesses instead,” Marco says. “It really is the next best option.”

“The prince is the heir,” Nicolò says. “That was the point of the match.”

“And you don’t want a princess,” Marco says, grinning.

“ _Enough_ ,” Nicolò tells him. “Please.”

“Do you have brothers?” Marco asks Tayyib. “If not, do not mistake this; I do not rejoice in my little brother’s difficulties, I only find some amusement in them where I can.”

“Brothers or sisters, I have never seen any differences there,” says Tayyib, and leaves them, as much as he can on a ship.

“Really, Marco,” Nicolò says when he is out of earshot. “I am trying to get him to stop looking at us as if we are likely to have him at swordpoint at any moment, and here you are, making him uncomfortable.”

“Two days, and you are chiding me over his comfort,” says Marco. “By the time we get to Malta you’re going to be in love.”

“There is a lot more to that than admiring someone’s face, or enjoying their company. As if you would know.”

“Take that back!” Marco says. “I love my wife very much. I wish this business to be done, so we can return to Genoa; our son is going to be walking by the time we return, at this rate.”

“I do not dispute you love her now, but it was hardly so when you wed,” Nicolò says. “You complained extensively that she was not as fair as you had hoped.”

“I was much younger then.” Marco flushes.

“You were the same age I am now.”

“I do not know why I try to sympathise with you, Nico,” Marco says, and stalks off. Nicolò does not bother to disguise his grin. Marco should not start fights he is not equipped to win. He does not actually doubt Marco’s affection for his wife, but it is not untrue that it took time to grow.

—

Nicolò leans on the railing, and frowns. There is a ship on the horizon that is noticeably closer than it was; catching up to them, and along the same line of travel. It is likely a merchant, but...he goes to find Nile.

“No, I know,” she says. “Probably nothing. But you’re right; if they’re not following us, it’s hard to tell. They would have caught up with us yesterday if the wind had been in their favour. We sail better into it, they’re faster with the wind behind them.”

Nicolò looks up at the sail. “And it’s behind both of us now.”

“Yes it is.” Nile drums her fingers meaningfully on her swordhilt. “Dammit, I really wasn’t expecting this.”

“Well, then,” he says, and goes to find Tayyib.

“Do you know how to use a sword?” he asks.

“Yes. Though not the type you carry. Why?”

“We are being followed,” he tells him. “I will see if one can be found for you, if it is necessary; I do not want to assume, but we need the crew to sail the ship, and so...”

“Those of us who are not necessary to sailing it should fight first?” Tayyib nods. “I understand that. Where is this ship?”

His face goes very grim when he sees it, and then sorrowful. “I told you I did not know if I would be pursued. I think this may be an answer.”

“Then go below,” Nicolò says at once. “We may be able to talk our way out of it, if that is the case.”

Tayyib looks startled. “You don’t owe me that.”

“You were swimming to shore, and you might or might not have made it. I know how badly you want to avoid this.”

“I did think better of it partway,” Tayyib admits ruefully. “But...no, I still would have done it. It is just that –”

“Go. Please. It will be better for everybody.”

Tayyib shakes his head, but he goes.

The other ship comes up very fast, and alongside. It is a dangerous maneuveur, but Nile is convinced of their ability to get free, if they need to. Nicolò is expecting they will attempt to board, but instead they convey that they wish to send someone for a discussion.

“We can repel them,” Nile says quietly to him. “Your choice.”

“We’ll talk,” Nicolò replies. “If what they want is not here, they may yet leave peacably. And we are not here to start fights if we can avoid them.”

Their leader is a tall man with a certain swagger to him.

“I apologise for making your day difficult,” he says in the trading tongue. “My name is Aziz of Tripoli, and I am looking for something which belongs to me; you may have seen it.”

“We left Tunis three days ago, and have seen nothing unusual, except other ships,” says Nicolò. Tripoli; that is in Fatimid territory. “What is it that you seek?”

“My future husband.” Aziz sighs. “He had an attack of nerves, and fled the ship. Yours is the only one that was within sight, an hour either side of when it happened, two days hence. If he is not here, then I am afraid he may be lost.” His expression sobers further. Nicolò would believe he is genuinely concerned. And maybe he is; men are complicated.

“Then I fear you must expect the worst,” Nicolò says. “Though two days ago, we were anchored close to shore – might have have swum to land?”

“We searched, and I do not believe so.”

“That is grave tidings. But, may I ask – if your husband-to-be was so eager to flee you that he jumped from your ship, why do you pursue him?”

“It is a matter of politics.” He takes Nicolò in critically. “You look as if you might understand that, by your dress, and your bearing. I need the marriage. And he was all for it – it is only that he is a romantic at heart, and did not like to think I might not _only_ want him for love. I am sure, when I find him, he will reconsider.”

“I wish you good fortune, then, in your search, and in reconciling with him when he is found,” says Nicolò, itching to get this man off the ship. There is no way this ends well, if Tayyib is spotted, he knows. “But we cannot help you.”

“Surely you will not mind if we search.”

“Surely you understand that you are a stranger with an odd tale, and there are pirates in these waters,” says Nicolò. “I feel for you – I have a husband-to-be of my own who is curiously absent. But I do not owe you a search of my ship.”

Aziz’s eyes narrow. “That is not unreasonable, but – who are you, anyway? You never named yourself.”

“Nicolò of Genoa,” Nicolò says; he is the youngest in his family and the name does not identify him so closely that he is reluctant to give it in this circumstance. He would not want to embarrass the queen or his mother by airing their difficulties, otherwise.

He is not expecting the response he gets.

Aziz’s face hardens. “Then I am afraid we _will_ have to search your ship.”

“We’ve just agreed that’s not going to happen,” says Nile.

Hands go to sword-hilts, and there’s a moment when the sea itself seems to hold its breath.

“Tell me,” Nicolò says. “Are we enemies, and I am unaware of it? Because I have never heard your name before; nor am I aware that Tripoli has a quarrel with Genoa.”

Aziz laughs, incredulously, like Nicolò has just said something very stupid. It’s somewhat offensive. But not as offensive as the fact that he draws his sword, and, there it is, they _are_ being boarded.

Nicolò is not new to battle, and he’s not even new to battle on board ships. He fends off the first man who engages him, and puts him out of combat with a clean thrust through the thigh; he goes down on one knee, and will likely bleed out. If someone is coming at you with a sword, there are no second chances and no reprieves.

But the ship is moving and tilting, Nile having sprinted to the rudder to pull them away from their unwanted companion vessel, and the deck is getting bloody, and Nicolò’s foot goes out from under him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Marco bodily heave another man over the side, and further away, hears Nile yell. It’s the sort of yell that means someone _else_ is having the worst of it, but Aziz is looming over him and Nicolò has to roll to avoid a sword through his throat. He’s not going to be fast enough to avoid the follow-up. He knows it, dimly. Sometimes that’s all it takes. Luck, or the lack thereof.

There’s another surprised yell, much closer, and Nicolò heaves himself to his feet with the roll of the ship, to see Tayyib in between him and Aziz. He’s speaking very rapidly in Arabic, not a dialect Nicolò knows well, and it’s nearly impossible to follow. He can follow the point of the sword in Tayyib’s hand, though. He has put himself between Nicolò and his attacker.

Nicolò just about makes out that Aziz believes passionately that Tayyib could have – have something, and him. He circles, but hesitates to intervene. The fight is dying down, anyway.

“I _loved_ you,” Tayyib says, then something else, and then “Only tell me you feel the same!”

Aziz hesitates. Whatever he is going to say, it is lost – not because of anything Tayyib does, but because Marco skewers him from behind. He collapses.

Tayyib goes to his knees next to him.

“Well, I think that’s the last of them,” Marco says, wiping off his blade. “Nicolò? What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

*

“Are you alright?” Nicolò asks Tayyib, what is probably only an hour or two later but feels like a lifetime. Nile is organising her crew across both ships; once the fighting on board was done, they had circled back, unwilling to risk pursuit. Nicolò had not particularly wanted to take the other one, but under the circumstances they couldn’t really do anything else. The crew had accepted it relatively quietly when told that they would be sailing to Malta. They seem to be hired, not Aziz’s sworn men. Those are all dead.

Tayyib just stares at Nicolò. “Am I...alright?”

“I do not entirely understand what is going on, and I do not think you mean me to,” Nicolò says, “but you did not speak to him like someone you did not care for, and Marco very nearly killed him. He may yet still die. So. Are you alright?”

“No.” Tayyib continues to stare at him. “No, I...do not think I am.”

“You can’t really be alone on a ship, but if you go up to the bow, I think perhaps you will be...more alone. Or, if you do not wish to be, I can sit with you for a while.”

“You are very unexpected, Nicolò of Genoa.” His voice is shaky.

“It really is the least thing I could offer.”

“Thank you,” Tayyib says, “and yes, I think I would like to be alone for a while.”

The ship isn’t that big, though; Nicolò can feel his eyes on him for most of the rest of the day.

“What were you arguing about?” Nile asks Tayyib that evening. “I heard it, but I couldn’t understand it.” He had spent the afternoon sitting with his – Nicolò cannot think what to call their relationship; the man he had once meant to marry. He is not yet dead, but nor has he woken.

“You don’t _have_ to tell us,” Nicolò adds, “but I would like to know what enemies I have made, beyond a single name. I do not think he will awake to tell me anytime soon.”

“I – find it hard to speak of right now. We...could talk in Malta, perhaps,” Tayyib says, looking down at the deck. “But I – do not think you will have made any more thank you already have.”

“Well, thank God for that,” says Marco. Nicolò kicks him in the ankle. “Nicolò, what?”

“Marco apologises,” Nicolò says, “for not simply taking him captive.”

“They boarded and attacked us,” Marco says.

“No, I know,” says Tayyib. “And he was not planning to show you any mercy.”

“Yes, I noticed that when he was about to run me through.” Nicolò remembers he has forgotten a courtesy, too. “Which you prevented, and I have not thanked you for.”

Tayyib starts to laugh at that, but it’s the sort of laughter that says he’s been pushed over an edge; everybody quiets while he works through it. It doesn’t turn to weeping, which Nicolò is half-expecting.

“Don’t make me regret it,” he says when he’s done.

“I cannot think of any way I could,” Nicolò says, bemused. “But I owe you, and will not forget it.”

*

They make good time to Malta. After some discussion, the crew of the other ship are told they will wait to see if their prisoner lives or dies; they may be needed to bear him back whence he came. There are one or two other prisoners as well, but they are well if sullen, and can be confined easily enough. Malta will be Nicolò’s dowry when he weds – _if_ he weds, at this point – but for the moment it is in Genoan hands.

“So,” he says to Tayyib. “What will you do now?”

“I think I am going to have to return to my family,” Tayyib says, rubbing his beard, “and accept the consequences.”

“Are you not afraid they will push the marriage regardless? I do not think he is like to die at this stage, although things could still turn sour.”

Aziz is feverish but not fading. Tayyib had confided, just before they docked in Malta, that he is a minor noble of the Fatimid court. Nicolò can probably ransom him back there without too much loss of face for anybody involved. He could just send him, but he is not inclined to be _that_ generous about it. He supposes Tayyib must be from there as well, and is probably reluctant to say so unless Nicolò decides to ransom _him_ as well. Marco had mused it would be fair recompense for their troubles, but he was joking. Mostly.

“I...may have given you the wrong impression,” says Tayyib, studying Nicolò as if looking for something he is not finding. “My family did not support the marriage; it was my idea. I thought he was a better person than he turned out to be. He wanted – his family and mine have differences, and he thought I would support him against them, since I was willing to disregard them in the matter of my marriage. I hoped that maybe I could reason with him, but what happened when he found us at sea...no. It was treacherous, and there is no reasoning with him. I feel like a fool.”

“Well, we _were_ lying to him,” Nicolò points out. “You were very much aboard the ship.”

“Because I asked you to.”

“I don’t think that was the wrong decision, not that that is any comfort, I am sure.” Nicolò is remembering Aziz referring to Tayyib as something that belonged to him.

“Do not mistake me,” Tayyib says. “I am not grieving him, exactly, though I do not hope for his death. I am grieving what I believed was between us.”

“I understand,” Nicolò says, and pats him comfortingly on the arm; Tayyib smiles hesitantly. Then his smile fades.

“I think you sympathise with him more than you let on. You have a reluctant husband-to-be of your own.”

“I do not fault him for chasing after you,” Nicolò says, slowly, “but some of what he said, and of course attacking us; I do fault that. And in the end, I have never laid eyes on my prince. If _he_ was willing to risk death to avoid me, having had the opportunity to reject me as I am and not the _idea_ of me, I would hope his family and mine could come to some other agreement.”

“You sound upset, but if it was the idea of you only, it cannot have been personal.”

“You speak sense,” Nicolò sighs, “but, I will confess, that does not stop it _feeling_ personal. A little.”

“No, I do see that,” Tayyib says, but the corners of his eyes are crinkling; Nicolò decides to let himself see the funny side.

“Yes, I am more sorely done by than anyone else on the shores of this sea, I am sure you agree,” he says, grinning. “In the mean time, let us see if we can set you on your course home. Ships are in and out of this harbour all the time; it should be no trouble.”

But the skies darken that afternoon; a series of summer storms is coming through.

“You will stay with us, of course,” Nicolò says. “Until the weather clears and a ship going to the correct destination arrives. The portmaster will tell us as soon as that happens, Nile has already spoken with him.”

“You know what’s going to happen,” says Marco, later. “Your prince is going to sail in, and the first thing he will see is that you’ve installed this man in the very castle you and he are supposed to rule from – ”

“His life has been turned upside down in the space of a week, Marco!” says Nicolò. “There is nothing of that sort between us.”

It’s absolutely true. It remains true up until three days later, when word comes via Nile that a ship from Tunis, which will be returning to its port after this, is expected in the next day.

“That will do,” Tayyib says, when Nicolò tells him of the ship. “I can make my way from there.”

“Are you sure?” Nicolò asks him. “You are welcome to stay until there is something direct –”

“Are you trying to keep me here?”

“No, no,” Nicolò laughs. “But your company has been – enjoyable.”

“Aside from when it almost got you killed.”

Nicolò looks into Tayyib’s kind brown eyes and says “Worth it all the same,” instead of literally any of the other things he could have said, and has to follow it up hastily with “But – I have other obligations – as I know you are aware. So I would not wish to – it is only that I would have liked to know you better.”

“Your reluctant prince,” says Tayyib. “I am aware.”

“He probably does think I’m going to try the same sort of thing,” Nicolò grouses. “He could have at least deigned to _meet_ me before he ran away.” He shakes his head. “And I am complaining again, and should not be. Please ignore me.”

“Nicolò,” Tayyib says, in a strangled voice, and kisses him.

Nicolò is not at all expecting this, as welcome as it is. Tayyib kisses him at first gently, and then when Nicolò leans into it, cups the back of his head with one hand and pulls Nicolò to him with the other on the curve of his lower back. Nicolò hasn’t kissed someone like this for months. Possibly years. Possibly _ever_.

“I don’t have to leave until tomorrow,” Tayyib whispers against his mouth. “Can I –”

“Yes,” Nicolò says at once. “Whatever you’re about to say. Yes.”

“That’s a very dangerous offer.”

Nicolò kisses him this time, letting his hands roam. “A risk I am willing to take.”

He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, but – this once, he wants something for himself, a good memory to take into whatever this dutiful marriage is going to give him. He isn’t under any false impression that Tayyib is doing this purely for the sake of attraction to him, either. He has been through a great deal recently, and this is certainly one way to be distracted from your thoughts for a time.

Tayyib sucks bruises along his collarbone, holds Nicolò down with the weight of his body while he teases Nicolò with his hand, laughing when Nicolò swears. It’s the kind of bedding that makes Nicolò laugh, too, when Tayyib finally brings him over the edge. He gets his revenge with his mouth and his hands and a great deal of patience. There are probably a dozen better things he could have spent the afternoon doing, but looking at Tayyib after, his brow smooth and a small smile on his lips as he half-dozes, Nicolò can’t think of any of them. He will hold this memory to himself for as long as he can.

*

The ship that arrives the next day has not only come from Tunis, but carries the prince consort and the eldest princess; under these circumstances Tayyib will have to wait, as a royal ship is hardly likely to offer passage to a stranger. Nicolò scrutinizes this thought for his own bias, of wanting Tayyib to stay another day or two. He finds it probably correct, regardless.

The prince, it emerges, has still not been found. The prince consort looks weary, and worried.

“Under the circumstances,” he says, “the queen would like to offer you the hand of our eldest daughter, Noor. Of course, you will have to send word back to Genoa, or even return there, but we wanted to give you the opportunity to know each other.”

Princess Noor is affecting a docile expression, but Nicolò can feel her studying him quite critically, and with some wariness.

“We should speak further of this, if you are willing to accept my hospitality here,” he says, reflecting that now, after all, Marco has turned out to be exactly right; here is a prospective bride for him, and who does he have in the castle? A lover, even if only a lover of one night. He is going to have to handle this _very_ carefully.

He is not given the chance. Less than an hour after they return, just as he has sat down with the prince consort to discuss what will happen next, Marco appears and insists that he has urgent news.

“Well, go on,” Nicolò says.

“No, you have to come,” Marco says, and drags him away. “The princess has found Tayyib and now they’re arguing –”

“About what?”

“I don’t know, I don’t speak the language at all! But I did warn you –”

“You can say _I told you so later,_ ” Nicolò retorts, but as they stride into the main courtyard, they aren’t confronted with an argument; the princess is hugging Tayyib as if he were a relative.

“I can’t believe you!” she is saying. “We thought you might be _dead_! Or – or anything! We didn’t know!”

“Well, I’m not,” Tayyib says, sounding guilty. He spots Nicolò, and freezes, like someone who has seen his own doom.

“This is...my lady,” Nicolò says to Noor, “do you know this man?”

“Do I _know_ him?” She wheels on Nicolò. “Why did you not say that my brother was here all along?”

“Your what?”

“My brother,” she repeats. “Yusuf.”

“Sometimes called al-Tayyib,” says – Prince Yusuf, wincing. When Nicolò glances at Marco to see if he’s hearing this as well, Marco has his face scrunched up, like he can’t put all the pieces together. Of course; he doesn’t know what anybody is saying. No help there, then.

“Oh!” Noor puts a hand to her mouth. “Yusuf, were you hiding from him? _Here_? Were you trying to be clever?”

“I haven’t done anything clever for _days_ now,” says Yusuf. “Believe me.” Then he shakes his head. “Well, refusing to start a rebellion against our mother, that was _intelligent_ at least _,_ but if I had been clever I would not have been in the position of having to.”

Nicolò is trying to think of something clever to say himself, but he has nothing. Every event of the last week is unspooling in his head, with a very different complexion.

“I – you must come with me,” he manages, and takes Tayyib, no, Yusuf, by the hand. He does not resist. He takes him through the halls of the castle, Noor and Marco following, both demanding to know what he is doing.

“Please tell me my mother isn’t here,” says Yusuf.

“She isn’t,” Nicolò says, and opens the door to the chamber where the prince consort is sitting – no, standing, examining one of the tapestries. He turns as the door opens, and visibly startles. “My son!”

Nicolò lets go of Yusuf’s hand. “Is this – your highness, is this Prince Yusuf?”

“Of course it – he has _been_ here, and you have said nothing?”

“He didn’t know,” says Yusuf; when Nicolò looks back at him, he looks very rueful. “I do not know _how_ , but...”

“You will forgive me for taking you at your word,” Nicolò snaps, and then regains control of himself. “We met under circumstances that meant it did not occur to me to wonder.”

“Nicolò, what is going _on_?” Marco demands, in Ligurian. “Are they upset at you because you have a lover here?”

It is suddenly very easy to tell who in the room can understand Ligurian. The prince consort, certainly, Yusuf, apparently, a thing Nicolò did _not_ know, Noor, not at all or perhaps only a very little, which is a cold and small comfort.

“It seems that this is in fact Prince Yusuf,” Nicolò replies. Marco gets that scrunched-up expression again. “Marco, perhaps you could go and...let Nile know she does not need to find a ship? That would be very helpful.”

“You are going to tell me _everything_ later,” Marco says, but – his best quality – takes in Nicolò’s expression, and goes.

“Father,” Yusuf says, going over to the prince consort. “I am sorry. I know I must have caused you all a great deal of worry.”

“That is not even half of it,” his father says, “but we can speak of that later; I am only relieved that you stand before me, alive.” They embrace as well. Nicolò wonders what that would be like, having a father; his mother never encouraged him to think too long on his own.

“Does that mean I don’t have to marry him?” Noor asks. “If Yusuf is here –”

“Did you really think I was dead?” Yusuf says, looking alarmed.

“We did not know,” says his father, “but it was clear that your objection to the marriage was very real, and it did not seem we would get a profitable alliance with Genoa under those circumstances. So Noor –”

“But Noor can’t marry him!” Yusuf puts in, hastily.

Yusuf’s father frowns. “Do you know of some reason why not, from your time here?”

“Ah...no,” Yusuf says, avoiding Nicolò’s gaze. “I know of nothing to his discredit; he has been a very gracious host, when he did not know who I was. But I also know he does not want a wife.”

Noor sighs. “Well, I didn’t want to marry him and move to Malta either, but unlike _you_ , I was not going to run off and have dramatics about it.” She scrutinises Nicolò. “I suppose if you already have a lover you do not want a spouse, but you came to my mother’s court nevertheless.”

“I do not have – there is no reason I cannot marry...anybody,” Nicolò says.

“Yusuf,” Yusuf’s father says very sternly, “may I take it that you have decided to do as you are asked? If for your own reasons, rather than ours.”

“He has had an extraordinarily difficult few days,” Nicolò says. “I – would not hold him to anything right now –”

At the same time Yusuf is saying, over him “Yes.”

“Hmmm,” says his father. “Well, that simplifies things considerably.”

Nicolò shuts his eyes for a second. He does not know how to feel.

“Yusuf,” he says, for the first time; he wants it to be the first time of countless times. “Are you sure?” He steels himself. “I owe you a debt, remember; it could easily be this.”

“I am sure,” says Yusuf, “that I would never have to risk my life to get away from you, and that you are kind, and that I failed to value these qualities sufficiently before, when I fell in love.” His eyes are saying other things; Nicolò, who can still feel the bruises on his collarbone, can read them easily. Yusuf wrinkles his nose. “I remain to be convinced about Malta, but I think I could be. If that is enough, Nicolò –” He holds out his hand.

Nicolò takes it, wordlessly, and he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this kink meme prompt](https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4108.html?thread=1374476#cmt1374476):
> 
> _Joe has already chosen the man he is going to spend the rest of his life with. He is madly in love and his parents' backwards views on marriage won't change this. Unfortunately, his betrothed is already on his way and he'll do anything to see this marriage through._
> 
> _Nicky is the unwanted betrothed who HAS to make this marriage happen for political reasons._
> 
> _*insert character* is Joe's beloved who's only in it for the power but who won't go down without a fight._
> 
> (Yes, I OC’d Joe’s beloved, I couldn’t convince myself that any of the rest of the Guard would be the bad guy in this scenario OR that Joe could fall for any of the movie bad guys.)
> 
> And also for Fitzcamel, who asked me on Twitter what would happen if Nicolò’s brothers (as featured in a few of my other AUs) weren’t ever entirely useless. I had to kill off his father to make it happen, but here’s your answer! Though for the record, they’re not so bad in any of the modern AUs, either.


End file.
